“This Life Is Chronic.”

“This life is chronic.” That’s what the lady said to me during a class I was taking. She had been a counselor and worked with different-brained children in her previous life and someone introduced us, of course. As we’re talking she says, “This life is chronic.” She didn’t say it twice; I’m just repeating the first sentence again. I didn’t know the actual definition of chronic in that moment, but it sure didn’t sound good to me. I smiled, because I had just met her and didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the conversation by asking what “chronic” meant, and we carried on. I don’t remember much of the conversation, except for that one sentence.

So I looked up the definition online at dictionary.com. Here’s what it says:

chron·ic – adjective

1.constant; habitual; inveterate: a chronic liar.

2.continuing a long time or recurring frequently: a chronic state of civil war.

3.having long had a disease, habit, weakness, or the like: a chronic invalid.

4.(of a disease) having long duration (opposed to acute).

Well, that’s not what I want. I want to walk into a doctor’s office and get this fixed. I sure don’t want to deal with moments like tonight all the time. I don’t want my other son to have to deal with moments like tonight. I don’t want my boyfriend and his daughter to have to deal with moments like tonight. And yet, moments like tonight happen on nights like tonight. Nights that start out beautiful and joyful. I remember the laughter and running around, a little bit.

I will not share about tonight, tonight. I am tired and I would curse a lot and I’m finding that people don’t love curse words. I do, but others don’t, and I still need to curse. It involved three beautiful children and a game named “Tag.” My different-brained son doesn’t play tag, so then why was he in the game? Alert! It went downhill very fast. Several hours later I am here writing this blog post because I need to share. Thank you.

Right now, before I go to bed, I am in need of space and quiet and solitude. I don’t know how long I’ll stay awake. I’m very tired. And I want to sleep, but for my own sanity and mental health, I need to “sit and stare” for a bit longer.

“This life is chronic,” a blogger said to you one night.

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Opening My Eyes Now

Well, I have to find a school for Michael so he can attend sixth grade next year. Homeschooling is out of the question. We’ve tried it. It didn’t work. I don’t want to do it anyway. I thoroughly enjoy my work and having coffee with friends. 🙂

I found out last week that I’d have to find a school for him. We didn’t know whether his current school would choose to have a 6th grade or not . . . until now. They have made a decision with many sound reasons and I fully agree with the choice for his school to not offer a sixth grade class.

That leaves me in a bit of a pickle though. This past weekend I refused to think about it. When I did think about it, my eyes got all misty and sting-y, so I’d stop thinking about it. Today is Tuesday, and I am starting to think about the possibilities and my eyes aren’t even sting-y. 🙂 Progress. Forward progress and that is a great thing. Next Monday, I will start making phone calls and I will schedule open house visits. For now though, I have eyes at half-mast. I will wait for myself to continue to adjust to the newest task at hand. A task I have done, what feels like, way too many times for a beautiful ten-year-old boy.

School number seven, wherefore art thou?

My Different-Brained Son Is Like a Piece of Art

When someone asks about Michael, here’s how I describe him at this moment in time:

When you walk into the Museum Of Modern Art (MOMA) in New York, there are pieces of art there that have moved me at a visceral level. Michael, to me, is like a painting that deserves to be hung in MOMA. He moves my entire physical and emotional state with his energy. Michael is like experiencing full grief and full joy all at the same time. It feels like he is brooding with paradox, and you’re fully in it when he’s with you. His colors are so intensely rich, they almost take your breath away. You want to step away because of the intensity, yet something keeps pulling you back in so you’re left confused and tired and exhilarated.

Now, that might seem like a far-fetched description of a child, but that is my absolute truth. I am an artist, and I have been to the MOMA in New York, and I literally started crying at several paintings. I am moved by art on many levels. That is exactly how I feel about Michael.